


time, the healer

by Caisar



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Assassination Attempt(s), Bad Things Happen Bingo, Established Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Grand Marshal Armitage Hux, Hopeful Ending, Kylo Ren-centric, Kylux Big Bang 2020, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Exile, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caisar/pseuds/Caisar
Summary: After an assassination attempt by his maybe-lover Grand Marshal Hux, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren escapes from the First Order in the dead of the night, leaving the throne to Hux. While wandering the galaxy, he comes across two cousins—who, unknowingly, pave his way back to Hux.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626937
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Kylux Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally do long A/N, but seeing as this story has its own making-of story at this point, that might be warranted.
> 
> If you read the first chapter before 31/01/2021 and came back for the second one, I would recommend starting from the beginning. The previous version was _far_ from my vision and a lot has changed in the editing. Mind the updated tags as well.
> 
> This story has always been intended as a one-shot. I'm keeping it as a two-parter to preserve its (messy and glorious) history, but I would recommend clicking on the Entire Work option.
> 
> Special thanks to:  
> \- [she_dies_at_the_end](https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_dies_at_the_end/works) and [Yobotica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yobotica/works), without either of whom this story simply wouldn't exist.  
> \- [nerdherderette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/works), [tclp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tclp/works) and [verybadhedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verybadhedgehog/works), who read this story in its various stages and shared their valuable insights. I can only hope I did your suggestions justice.  
> \- Last but not the least, my dear KBB 2020 partner, [ofcacthuxandkylosaur](https://ofcacthuxandkylosaur.tumblr.com), for the amazing art you will find embedded in their rightful places.
> 
> I can happily lie down and die now.

Three showers and he still stinks of the medbay.

No one told him exactly how messed up he was after the explosion. By the tentative way the medical personnel touched him these past days, like they might pull too hard and come away with a limb, he imagines at least a portion of his current body is vat-grown and bacta-knit. Odds are, there’s still bacta dissolving under his skin, connecting tissue and bone, remaking him cell by cell.

Maybe this is why his limbs feel a little disconnected from his body.

The Force guides him through the ship, warning him away from the guards and watchful gazes of security cameras. His legs are shaky under him, his body weakened from disuse. He should rest as instructed, let his body recover and regain the strength it has lost slowly. If only he had the time for it.

A Force-suggestion clears out the handful of guards around and within the hangar, with instructions to return to their posts in ten minutes and forget that they saw him tonight. A month ago, it would worry him, how easily they comply—such weak minds are befitting of the First Order’s soldiers. If Kylo, with his skin still a little green from weeks spent floating in a tank, can send them away with the faintest thought, what could someone at the peak of their strength do?

A month ago, such thoughts would keep Kylo awake. They are Hux’s problems now.

The hangar is decorated with several shuttles, from shiny _Xi_ -classes to a series of battle-worn starfighters. The new TIE Whisper draws his eye—but no, he needs something that doesn’t scream _military_. Something that can blend in more easily, without a signature flair. He can’t let the First Order track him down by any means; anything that might get between him and his freedom must go. Including his lightsaber.

Hux would call it a whim—no, Hux would call it stupid. _Recovery period after a near death experience is hardly the time for big decisions you can’t handle, Ren_ , Kylo can hear Hux say at the back of his head. Hux himself failed to make that experience final, so who is the bigger idiot here?

* * *

The galaxy is vast.

He has never felt that more acutely than these weeks of wandering. No destination in mind—nowhere to go, if he is honest with himself. Running from something like the First Order, the most obvious pick would be Darlyn Boda—ass end of the galaxy where dreams go to die and monsters like him thrive.

Hence, he avoids it.

Instead, he sets his sights to the Inner Rim and goes to Obroa-skai, mostly because Hux wouldn’t expect him to fit in there. The bastard turns out to be right, so he tries Vaklin next. Malador. Frewwil. He has a brief stint in Theal but quickly bores of the constant rain and storms. When fuel runs out—as is wont to, even on an efficient machine like his T-1—he hops off at the nearest spaceport and sets the autopilot coordinates to Tatooine just to fuck with Hux. The idea of Hux’s sneer when he finds the shuttle empty lessens the sting of losing his means of transport.

Better than getting caught trying to trade in a First Order-issued shuttle under the table anyway.

Hux will expect to find him—if he cares to find him, if getting his heart’s desire without dirtying his hands isn’t enough, if he won’t rest until he has Kylo’s beating heart in his hands as well—by tracking the more obvious signs of Force use across the galaxy. Kylo makes a point of acquiring everything he needs without the faintest Force-suggestion. Kylo Ren isn’t known for his conversation skills, but Ben Solo grew up on sabacc tables in backrooms, on pilot seats while Han charmed his way out of whatever mess he got them into. He can talk his way into a cursed shuttle.

* * *

Talk his way in he does.

The first one to pick him up, Aucra, is a Conductor-class cargo ship pilot that drives landspeeders in the off-season. He tells Kylo—Bren, now—all about the baby daughter he is returning to and doesn’t ask too many questions when Kylo says he is running from a bad life. Kylo trades his gaberwool coat for Aucra’s worn jacket and a bag with a slight rip near the top before they part ways.

People start to blur into each other after that—so do the personas he uses with them. He isn’t the legendary Force-user Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the First Order, terror of the galaxy anymore; he is just Bren: a drifter, a smuggler, a mercenary, a mechanic if that’s what they need. He knows enough about being all of them to keep up the small talk until he is back on solid ground.

As it turns out, there isn’t much to do in the galaxy other than drink, fly and fuck. Because he is stupid enough to still feel committed to the man who cared for Kylo’s throne more than Kylo himself, he divides his time between ships and cantinas, downing cheap booze and eyeing the room for his way out to the next planet.

Tonight, his sights are set on a group of mercenaries—loud, intimidating and infectious in their drunken, careless joy. He isn’t a solitary creature, no matter what Snoke tried to mold him into; the idea of being part of a group again, even if only until the next spaceport, raises his spirits.

Right on cue, that call in the Force comes again—a hard tug, inquiring and insistent, Vicrul’s Force-signature at the other end. He dismisses it with a pang in his heart. His Knights are still in Hux’s service; using them to track him down wouldn’t be below Hux. Kylo can’t take that risk, no matter how much he misses them.

Letting the ache in the center of his being guide him, he approaches the group, keeping his posture relaxed and his steps slow. The one with the palm-shaped paint around their right eye notices him first, jerking their head at him in what Kylo assumes to be a salute, leaning back in their chair. The others are roaring in laughter at whatever story the one with the braids is telling. Kylo only catches: “Once we hit Uucayan—”

* * *

_It isn’t the right place._

_Disappointment radiates from Hux as the reporting officer rattles off all the reasons why not. Something about the terrain being different from what was reported; Kylo doesn’t understand half the terms thrown back and forth and they don’t try to get him involved in the discussion. Just as well. He rarely finds the chance to stand on fresh dirt and breathe non-recycled air; he would rather enjoy it while he can._

_Dismissing the officer, Hux reaches into an inner pocket. “What a waste of fuel,” he mutters, producing his beaten-up pack of cigarras and lighter. Ugh. The bedsheets will stink again. “I can’t believe we allocated an entire standard week for this expedition.”_

_“It was a promising location for the plant,” Kylo amends. Close to the raw material and the means to mine it both. The labor would cost higher than they budgeted for, but the convenience would make up for it—or so Hux says._

_Hux only shakes his head, taking another drag. Kylo aches to pull him close and remind him it isn’t over, that they still have three more planets to explore; they haven’t even been to the Sector Octant yet. Hux wouldn’t allow coddling, though, least of all with Opan and the troopers within sight._

_Kylo keeps his mouth shut and lets Hux smoke himself into a better mood. Once Hux ashes the cigarra on the ground, they get back to work._

_Their specialized research team was altogether ill-chosen for the current circumstances. With the expedition cancelled, the troopers take down the camp and crate everything while the officers rush around with dossiers and checklists in hand, making sure every piece of gear is accounted for. Kylo isn’t looking forward to seeing whatever highly defensible and equally uncomfortable spot Hux will pick to camp out for the night, as they wait for transport._

_Maybe Kylo can do something about that._

_He waits outside of Hux’s makeshift office until the tent flap finally opens. Mitaka almost trips over his own feet when he notices Kylo, giving him a tight salute._

_“Captain,” Kylo greets back before ducking inside._

_Hux is slumped in his chair with his elbows resting on the desk, rubbing forcefully at his temples, his expression pinched as if trying to banish his headache by sheer willpower. The line of his shoulders eases at the sight of Kylo, relief flashing in his tired eyes._

_Careful not to put weight on the cheap material, Kylo leans over the desk, replacing Hux’s hands with his own. While his Force powers are useless against Hux’s migraines, he likes to think his touch helps. Hux may not ask for it, but he never refuses Kylo’s wordless offer; that should mean something._

_Massaging Hux’s temples, “You know, Hux,” Kylo starts, pitching his voice low and soothing. “They say Uucayan is breathtaking this time of the year.”_

_His eyes flying open, Hux gives him a hard look. “Uucayan is climate-controlled year-round—”_

_“With artificial suns and moons, yes.” Kylo does read Hux’s reports and pay attention to the briefings, even if Hux doesn’t see it. He might not be the leader Hux deemed worthy of the First Order, but he_ tries _. “I’m trying to say we are on a beautiful, temperate planet with time to kill until the return shuttle arrives. Why don’t we enjoy ourselves for once?”_

 _“We can’t abandon our duties to_ mess about _, Supreme Leader.”_

_Smoothing over the creases on Hux’s forehead with his thumbs, “What duties?” Kylo asks, not unkindly. “You don’t have a bridge out here—and before you say reports, I’m getting no signal, so your datapad must be a brick, too. Admit it, Grand Marshal. You have nothing to do until the shuttle arrives.”_

_Hux presses his lips into a thin line, pulling away. Kylo’s hands feel cold in his gloves._

_“We are spending the night here anyway,” Kylo pushes on, unwilling to let it go. They haven’t stopped to take a breath since they took over the First Order: rushing after this project or that design, trying to stay three steps ahead of brash bottom-feeders like Red Key Raiders or the Nova Syndicate, those who hope to exploit their stumbling steps towards a new regime. He desperately wants a break—and Hux has needed one for much longer. “Might as well make the most of it.”_

_Hux considers him, scraping idly at his gloved palms. “What do you propose?”_

_“I sense a large body of water not too far from here,” Kylo says, projecting images of the clear lakes and crisp, reddish sand he had seen on the holonet onto Hux’s mind. Hux shivers in the imaginary breeze. “Let’s make an impromptu vacation out of it—a little something to raise morale among the troops.”_

_“Field rations over a campfire, long walks along the shore in full armor,” Hux muses, more mocking than teasing. He isn’t saying no._

_His heart rising with hope, “Sand up everyone’s crack,” Kylo adds with a grin. Hux rolls his eyes._ _“Come on, Hux. You know they deserve it.”_

_“Is it meant to be a vacation for the troops or for you?”_

_Kylo shrugs. “Am I not part of your soldiers?” Something startled scurries away behind Hux’s eyes. “Just one night, Hux.”_

_Hux releases a long-suffering sigh. “All right. Just don’t get too rowdy. We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”_

_They stay for two days._

* * *

Kylo chokes on the next inhale, his eyes watering.

He has never understood the appeal of smoking regularly. The sharp hit clears his head, but it isn’t worth the way all his anxieties come back in full force later. Still, he seeks one or two cigarras every once in a while, when he finds himself spiraling and needs something quick to take the edge off.

Not that it helps, now.

Coughing until his airway is clear, he puts out the half-burned cigarra on the pavement before standing, slapping dust off his trousers. When he walks back into the cantina with a light tickle in his throat, the mercenaries are gone.

It’s fine. Better that he didn’t join them anyway; big groups attract more attention than he can afford to risk. He will just find another lone drifter to tag along with.

Tomorrow.

Both his bag and half-finished glass are where he left them in his haste to get the fuck out. He picks both up and moves to a stool at the counter, rifling through his belongings while the tending droid fixes him a fresh one. Everything is in place, likely because nothing he owns now is worth stealing.

He watches the thin crowd grow thinner as the night progresses, sipping at weak booze which may or may not be fit for human consumption. By the time he is done with his third, only the evident regulars and those with nowhere better to go remain.

Well, _those_ and the kid.

The persistence is admirable. The kid has been table-hopping for the better part of an hour, approaching people twice his size with vague offers. How he hasn’t gotten decked yet is beyond Kylo; the patrons seem to find his bugging more amusing than annoying.

Kylo doesn’t share the sentiment.

Soon enough, the kid sidles up to him.

“Not interested,” Kylo grumbles without waiting for the opening he has overheard too many times already.

The kid climbs on the stool next to Kylo, undeterred—of course not. “Let me get you another drink,” he says, already signaling at the droid with a five djarin banknote between two fingers. “For your time.”

Kylo doesn’t protest as his glass is taken away, although he has already decided not to touch the new one. That light, comfortable haze he was aiming for has already settled at the edges of his awareness; he doesn’t want to go further. Just in case.

The kid eyes the glass the droid slides in front of Kylo. Nodding at the droid’s retreating back, he turns in his stool to face Kylo’s side. “I’m here with a job offer. My cousin and I have some errands to run. We want to make sure we’ll be left alone to do them.” He gives Kylo an appreciative size-up. “Someone like yourself would go a long way dissuading anybody from getting the wrong idea.”

Kylo snorts. “Someone like myself might have better things to do than babysitting.”

The kid looks him over again. His eyes linger on Kylo’s secondhand clothes, the scuff marks on the blaster at his side, dragging over the odd stitch where Kylo mended his bag. Irritation spikes in Kylo, hot and buzzing across his skin, his jaw locking with a click.

“Look, friend,” the kid says in a lower, stern tone, leaning forward with his hands latched together between his spread knees. Kylo itches to push him away, but he can’t risk starting a fight and getting thrown out—not when he has already paid for a room upstairs. “You don’t strike me as the type to haunt cantinas until closing time for fun. A simple escort job is probably below your notice, but it beats drinking yourself to sleep—and you make a few creds on the side. Think ‘bout it.”

Knocking on the counter twice, he slides off and away without waiting for Kylo’s response. Kylo’s hackles stay raised until the cantina door closes behind the kid. What a presumptuous little prick, thinking he knows Kylo—knows anything at all about his life.

Whatever. He won’t let another bastard ruin his night.

Gut churning, he pays off his tab and heads to his room—which is a generous word for the hole he walks into. His refresher on the _Finalizer_ was bigger than this. At the very least, he didn’t have to duck as he stepped into that one.

Not that he needs the space. A roof over his head is enough for the night. It has to be.

Dropping his bag and outer layers onto the nightstand, he takes a long shower, rubbing at his skin until it pinks and the smell of sweat and machine oil washes away. His clothes need a good wash, too, once he stays somewhere long enough for them to dry.

Maybe next stop.

* * *

Rest doesn’t come.

Snoke’s training should have ensured Kylo could fall asleep under any condition. He only dozes off between stretches of staring at the ceiling with sore eyes, his body rejecting the feeling of sleeping alone on a real bed. Might as well. His days see no peace; why should his nights be better?

Careful of the narrow edge, he rolls on his side—the bed expands in his sight, giving way to a wide, empty mattress covered in regulation sheets. His heart aches, his lungs too heavy in his chest as he extends a small hand over the smooth covers, hoping against hope to find them warm—

He wakes up with a pounding headache and a dry throat.

* * *

The cantina is mostly empty—as expected at dawn. He claims the same seat as the night before and orders the first food he recognizes the name of. The bartender—a weary humanoid in a stained apron who doubles as the cook—grumbles their way through Kylo’s order as if the double doors are supposed to be soundproof. Kylo doesn’t bother to correct them.

The bartender comes back in balancing a plate on four fingers and slides it in front of Kylo with a clatter, not even looking at him. Kylo is too starved to get mad. They watch him devour his ronto wrap with a frown for a moment before turning to the small viewport stained lightly with rain, swearing under their breath. “Damn bucketheads.”

Kylo chokes.

His eyes watering, he coughs until his airway is clear. “Stormtroopers?” The portion of the spaceport he can see from his own angle holds no signature First Order vessel, which is little comfort.

Has he been found already?

“Whatever you call them,” they say with a wave, their eyes following something outside. “Bucketheads are what they are.”

The cantina door opens in the next second.

His heart in his throat, Kylo risks a glance from the corner of his eyes, hoping the overgrown hair and patchy beard he has been unintentionally growing will buy him a few moments before recognition. The kid from last night and a tall, blonde woman that Kylo assumes to be the kid’s cousin walk in instead, shaking raindrops off their hair and coats.

Kylo never thought he would be so happy to see them.

While he admittedly didn’t pay much attention to what the kid had been offering the first time around, he recalls something about errands and escorting, which hopefully means they own a ship. The risk of getting spotted by Stormtroopers while trying to talk his way into a shuttle at the port is too great, but if he can convince these two to leave with him as soon as possible…

The kid and the cousin get settled at a table near the door, discussing something Kylo can’t overhear. Dropping his coat onto the seat in a crumpled heap, the kid starts towards the counter—Kylo turns away before he is caught, pretending to busy himself with the last bites of his wrap.

The kid orders half the plexi menu in one breath, two of most items and one of some—all to go. The bartender starts writing them down after the fifth item and disappears into the double doors again, complaining about how _those damn, damn bucketheads_ are scaring their customers away.

Suppressing the urge to shift, “Hey,” Kylo greets the kid.

The kid glances over, brows rising in recognition. “Hey, you,” he greets back with a wide grin. “How’s it going?”

Kylo shrugs a shoulder, hoping the kid will take it as an answer. “That spot for a bodyguard,” he says without further preamble. “Is it still open?”

“You changed your mind?”

“I’m considering changing my mind,” Kylo hedges. Seeming too eager to leave might come off suspicious. “We didn’t discuss payment yet.”

The kid rubs at the shaved hair at his nape. “Uh, El handles that part of the conversation,” he says with a sheepish smile, nodding his chin at the woman. “Mind if we hop over?”

Crumpling the empty wrapper into a ball, Kylo grabs his bag and follows the kid back to their table. The woman—El—looks up from her datapad, frowning at Kylo.

“This is my cousin, El,” the kid says, even though he hasn’t introduced _himself_ to Kylo yet. El, for her part, only stares. “El, this is, uh…”

“Bren,” Kylo supplies.

El lifts a brow. “Just Bren?”

Raising his chin, “Just Bren,” Kylo confirms. He doesn’t owe them more than that.

“Okay, just Bren,” the kid says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “El, he’s here about that job. Wants to talk bank first.”

El hums, still watching Kylo as if trying to read his soul. “Should we have this conversation somewhere else? On our ship, maybe.” She casts a pointed look at the few other patrons in the cantina, some of whom have taken an interest in their conversation. “Away from prying ears.”

Praying to the Force that he isn’t getting himself into something worse than what he left behind, Kylo says yes.

* * *

“These errands,” Kylo says, making a show of looking around the small, beaten shuttle that must have seen better days. “They aren’t spice runs.”

He has no clue why else two kids might be trekking across the muck of the Outer Rim, though. The size and state of the shuttle rules out any other type of contraband worth ferrying into that quadrant. Unless these fools have subtler skills to market across the Unknown Regions, they have no chance against all that lurks in those parts.

The kid leans against the side of the doorway. “We’re not smugglers or anything,” he says, extending his legs across the entrance. Kylo allows him the illusion that he is blocking Kylo’s way.

“Someone dear to us went missing,” El explains, her accent clipped in a way that sounds practiced to Kylo’s ears. “He’s prone to disappearing spells, but never without notice, and never for this long. We think he might be in trouble.”

Right. Just Kylo’s luck that he would be asked to be a hunter when he is being hunted down himself. “Have you considered the possibility that he might not want to be found?”

El narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “What are you running from?” she demands, drumming long nails over her bicep.

“A bad life,” Kylo responds easily. He must have given the same response a hundred times since leaving the First Order, as if something about him signals _runaway_ to anyone who has spent some time on the road.

She snorts. “No, for real. What did you do that set you running?”

Irritation bites at Kylo, that itch to pick a fight developing under his skin. What is it to them? Why should he lay his heart bare in front of these strangers? He doesn’t care to get a _job_ ; he only wants a ride to the next spaceport, where Hux’s extensive reach can’t grab him.

Well. If his path to safety requires the ugly truth, so be it.

Meeting El’s gaze, “My—the person I love tried to kill me,” he says, gritting his teeth at the pain that tears through him. She winces in sympathy. “I had something they wanted—something I _earned_ —and they would stop at nothing to take it from me. If I stayed, they would eventually succeed.”

Why the hell Hux is still after him is beyond Kylo. With the throne empty, Hux can install himself as the Supreme Leader anytime—maybe he already has. Is Kylo a loose end? Does Hux worry that Kylo might return to take the rule back from him?

An unnecessary fear, if so; Kylo would sooner cut off his fighting arm than take that seat again. He’s had enough of feeling inadequate to last him a lifetime.

El nods slowly. “We can’t pay you much.” Kylo had figured as much. “Room and board’s a given, plus a small allowance, and…”

El and the kid exchange a meaningful look. Something dark gathers in the pit of Kylo’s belly, the itch growing stronger the longer time passes in silence.

“And we can help you disappear after the job’s done,” the kid finishes.

The thought sends a thrill through Kylo.

“One of our contacts owes us a pretty big favor,” El says. “We were saving it for a rainy day, but if you don’t screw us over, and don’t let anybody else screw us over, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“And if you change your mind,” the kid adds, stepping away from the doorway, “you can get off whenever. No hard feelings.”

Not having to stay on the move, not having to look over his shoulder all the time—it all sounds too good not to come with a catch. These things always do. What will it be with these two? Will Kylo be traded for the person they are looking for, wherever he may be? Will he be abandoned in the middle of danger, left to fend for himself?

He sends the lightest Force tendrils to check first El’s, then the kid’s energy, sending no deceit from either. They are telling the truth—or they truly believe they are.

“When do we leave?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the first chapter before 31/01/2021 and came back for the second one, I would recommend starting from the beginning. The previous version was _far_ from my vision and a lot has changed in the editing. Mind the updated tags as well.

Ten minutes in, he is already regretting his decision.

The kid—Wedge, he is finally told; who the fuck names their child _Wedge_?—isn’t the worst pilot Kylo has ever met only because Kylo has seen Mitaka in the simulation rooms before. Not trusting him in the hyperspace even with El’s calculations, they amble through realspace, skirting too close to debris and other spacecraft.

No wonder the shuttle is so dented and scratched.

Too restless to sit back and hope Wedge won’t run them straight into an asteroid field, Kylo takes the vacant seat in the cockpit, keeping an eye on the route. He could help steady the shuttle with the Force. He has never learned the subtler ways of it, but Wedge’s mind feels scattered enough that, with some focus, Kylo might be able to plant a Force-suggestion deep enough to see them safely to their first destination.

He doesn’t. He has more self-control than that.

* * *

They stick to the undefined line between the Outer Rim and the Unknown Regions for the most part, weaving in and out seemingly on a whim. Cantinas. Casinos. Inns. Backrooms reek the same on either side. Kylo and El take turns watching the exits and keeping track of the weapons in the room while Wedge sidles up to their next target and pesters them for information until either their target gives in or they run.

It shouldn’t work in their favor as often as it does.

“That’s his thing,” El says into her glass of water, next to him.

Peeling his eyes from the cracked mirror behind the tending droid, Kylo looks over, unsure—as if she could be talking to anyone else. Since when does El _chat_ with him, though? They barely even talk unless it is a matter of food and sleeping arrangements or his payment.

“I’ve seen that look before,” she continues, watching Wedge laugh too loudly with a Zabrak through the reflection. The Zabrak stares back at Wedge with dry amusement on her face, the kyber hilt of her dagger poking out of her belt, catching the yellow cantina light. “You’re wondering how he walks into a room, says things that should get him shot, yet everyone falls in love with him anyway. It’s his thing.”

Sounds about right. “Did he ever actually get shot?”

A corner of her lips curls, not in good cheer. “Not on my watch. Before then, a few broken bones, maybe a cracked rib or two. I know he’s got a couple more he’s not telling me, but he’ll deny that to his dying breath.” She shakes her head fondly. “One of these days, he’s going to cross someone from the Nova gang; even his luck won’t save him then.”

The air shifts in the room.

El feels it at the same time as Kylo, the smile dropping off her face. Behind them, too many eyes are on Wedge and even more on the Zabrak, who looks ready to snap Wedge in half.

Cursing under her breath, El slides a credit chip to the tending droid. Kylo is already on his feet, pushing his way past the crowd that is thickening around the table. Two—three blasters are already shining out of their holdings.

“I said I’m sorry,” Wedge is saying with a slight slur to his tone, leaning into the Zabrak’s space over the table. “Didn’t mean to call you—uh. That. That was bad?”

Kriff. Does the kid have the faintest sense of self-preservation?

“Wedge,” Kylo warns, grabbing him by the arm. El appears at his heels, her hand hovering over her own blaster. With any luck, she won’t draw first this time. “Time to leave.”

Wedge, idiot that he is, grabs onto the far edge of the table with all his might, then at the back of the chair, mumbling something Kylo doesn’t care to hear. Offering her own apologies to the Zabrak, El pries the chair out of Wedge’s grip; it falls with a clatter behind them.

“You just needed to ask about the dagger,” El grumbles as they practically haul Wedge out. Fresh night air hits them, the wind warm in their faces. “ _Only_ the dagger. What did you even—no, you know what, I don’t even want to know.”

“Whatever,” Wedge says, finally bothering to hold some of his own weight. Kylo lets go of his bicep. “I got the dagger. Three cheers for Wedge!”

Ice slides down Kylo’s spine.

Skidding to a stop in the middle of the road, “You _what_?” El snaps, her grip tightening on Wedge’s arm.

Wedge shakes out his free arm, flashing her a wild grin. The same hilt that decorated the Zabrak’s belt appears out of his sleeve, followed by the weapon in its leather sheath.

A shrill yell comes from within the cantina.

“Should pro’ly leave,” Wedge offers—stumbles when El drags him forward, barely catching himself.

Kylo keeps an eye on him as they dash through narrow streets he doesn’t recognize, prepared to hold Wedge upright with the Force if he risks falling. Wedge rounds the corners just in time to keep his face intact, propelled more by El’s hold on him than his own might. They run until only the echo of their footsteps follow them, the commotion staying further and further behind.

“Wait,” Wedge gasps once they reach a main street, the sound half-buried under the growl of the lone carrier speeding past them. “El. Gonna puke.”

“Ugh.”

They slow to a stop, Kylo lingering a few steps behind. He is lightheaded past the point of discomfort, his legs burning and blood singing in his ears, that light buzz spreading under his skin. Stars. How long has it been since he trained properly?

Wedge rips himself out of El’s iron grip with a grimace and staggers towards the wall. As he retches wetly across the pavement, Kylo turns away, his stomach roiling. El should know better than to let the kid off on his own.

Not that it’s any of Kylo’s business. Stars know he is dysfunctional enough himself that he doesn’t get to judge others.

The sounds lessen to a dry heave until Wedge coughs twice. “’m fine,” he rasps, sniffing. “We can get—”

Kylo turns back just as Wedge slips in his own mess and falls straight on his face.

* * *

_He kriffing hates Hux’s planetside visits._

_Waste of time, all of them. They can discuss everything through a holoconference—but no, Hux needs to show up to every single meeting in person, to cross entire systems just to make an impression._ We need to have a tangible presence out there, _Hux says, as if someone would dare to move against them just because Hux hasn’t been to every structure they have built._

_If it were up to Kylo, Hux would never leave the safety of their flagship._

_“Don’t tell me you’re still brooding.”_

_Startled, Kylo swirls around. Hux is standing by the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, his hair combed into submission even through he’s still wearing sleep pants. Hux’s uniform is already laid out on the bed, a jarring gradient of greens and gold against the stark white sheets._

_Disappointment rushes through Kylo. He hadn’t_ truly _thought Hux would change his mind, but… “I don’t_ brood _.”_

_Hux rolls his eyes. “What else would you call your needless fretting?”_

_His—_

_Jaw locking with a click, Kylo takes a long breath against the bite of the comment. Their enemies have been getting bolder, going as far as to ambush and engage their Stormtroopers on the First Order turf; if anything, he isn’t fretting_ enough _._

 _Why isn’t_ Hux _?_

_Turning back to the dresser, Kylo picks out a set of robes—mostly to spite Hux, though he also doesn’t want to wear a uniform to an ice planet. He isn’t going to Ilum in any official capacity; he doesn’t need to dress up._

_Hux rounds the bed and pads over to Kylo, patiently waiting for Kylo to humor him. Kylo ignores him in favor of exchanging his shirt and leggings for clean ones, dropping the old ones on the floor. If he stalls long enough to make Hux late, maybe Hux won’t_ —

_“Ren,” Hux prompts sweetly. “Won’t you help me with my uniform?”_

_As if he needed_ help _with his uniform once in his life, vain bastard._

_After all this time, a part of Kylo still expects to see charcoal grey sliding over Hux’s pale skin, hidden fastenings down the front instead of the wide straps crossing over Hux’s chest._

_“You might already know this,” Hux says as Kylo fixes the drop of the belt, making sure to place the buttons symmetrically, just the way Hux likes it. “Sector 5 is fully under Amaxine control as of last month. Officially and permanently—or at least, so long as they keep their end of the bargain.”_

_Yes, Kylo_ might _know—they have only been talking about the Sector Octant for the last kriffing_ year _. Does Hux truly think Kylo tunes him out every time Hux starts talking about his little plant? It was a_ joke _for stars’ sake._

_“Daring as they have been, even the Nova Syndicate would think twice before openly going against the Amaxines, Ren. With allies like them, the Sectors might be the single safest place for me to visit outside of our own outposts. With or without you.”_

_Kylo would still prefer_ with _. The idea of Hux travelling to Sector 5-19 with only his blaster and two Stormtroopers for security makes his gut clench. “I could still join you, you know.”_

_Raising a brow, “Oh?” Hux says—rolls his eyes as Kylo calls Hux’s boots across the room with the Force. “Postponing your ritual, are you?”_

_“Of course not.” The Force doesn’t listen to schedule or whim. He needs to complete his ritual and express his gratitude for all the Force gave them before the year turns on Ilum, lest they risk unfathomable loss and ruin._

_If Hux realized how much of what they accomplished is owed to the generosity of the Force, he wouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Kylo’s rites._

_Hux takes the boots from him. “Seeing as I am not postponing this meeting, either,” he says as he puts them on efficiently, fixing the fit, “I don’t see how you can join me.”_

_“Why does it have to be today?” They waited for Techie and his team this long; they can wait another week until Kylo returns. What can be so urgent about_ status reports _? Will the plant kriffing explode if nine officers don’t gather around a table within the only week in the year that Kylo can’t join them?_

_What is so special about today?_

_Releasing a long breath, “We are already delayed enough as it is, Ren,” Hux says. “We need this plant to be operational as soon as possible. I won’t push it back another week just because you’re uneasy about me braving a glorified road trip without you.”_

_The trip itself is only half of it—Kylo has had a bad feeling about Sector 5-19 ever since they first stepped foot on it. Something about the planet repels him. He doesn’t know how to explain that to Hux’s logical mind, though. How does he tell Hux about the way his senses warn him away from that place without getting laughed at for his mysticism and_ fretting _in return_ _?_

_Taking the greatcoat off the bed, Kylo gently shakes it before holding it out. “Take more troopers with you, then,” he murmurs while draping it over Hux’s shoulders. Hux turns to face him, the yellow hem of the coat flirting with the floor. “A full unit.”_

_“Excessive, but if it puts an end to your fussing.” Stepping even closer, Hux lets go of a lapel to brush Kylo’s hair away from his face. Kylo wants to kiss his fingertips. “Nothing bad will happen. I promise.”_

* * *

The examination room is too small for four.

Kylo lingers outside the medical center, the white tables and stark rooms inside reminding him of the medbay too much. Leaning against a wall, he watches the few other unlucky individuals who darken the center’s doorstep at this hour, which does little to keep his mind away from the memories that haunt him. Were Hux the faintest whisper of Force-sensitive, Kylo could have blamed him for the torture.

The morning of Hux’s eventual betrayal. What a fitting choice it would be.

El steps out of the building behind a pair of Twi’leks. The tight lines on her face smooth slightly at the sight of Kylo, half-hidden under the loosened strands of her ponytail.

“How is he?” Kylo asks as she leans heavily on the wall next to him.

She shakes her head, digging into her bag. “Still drunk, I think. He keeps discovering he’s wearing a brace and asking why his wrist hurts. I just couldn’t be in there anymore.”

Fishing out an adorned case, she offers a cigarra to Kylo. Kylo waves off the offer. He could do without the reminder tonight. “You know he’ll be fine.”

“Sure, he will be,” El agrees around her cigarra, lighting it with a wooden match she waves out. “He always is, in the end. _I_ get shaved ten years off my life every time he pulls a Wedge.”

Taking a long drag, she releases the smoke through her nose in a long exhale. Kylo watches the wind carry it away from them.

Sighing deeply, “Look, I hate to do this, Bren,” El says. Kylo stiffens, eyeing her. “But I got a favor to ask. How good a pilot are you?”

“I’m decent. Why?”

El glances over her shoulder, as if she could see through the walls. “The doctor says a sprained wrist might take weeks to heal. We don’t have that kind of time. Could you pilot the shuttle for a while?”

Suspicion rises in him. There must be a catch. No one just hands over the controls of their transport to a semi-stranger. Kylo wouldn’t under pain of death. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t pilot,” El says tightly. Kylo waits for the explanation, which doesn’t follow. “If you can’t, I’ll find another solution. Just say the word.”

“I can.” Even if the idea of sitting on a pilot seat after what happened with his Silencer squeezes his insides like a fist. He won’t lose that, too. “I don’t understand why you trust me with it, is the thing. For all you know, I might hijack the shuttle and leave you stranded as soon as I get my hands on it.”

El smiles wolfishly, all teeth. “I’ve got a blaster bolt with your name on it if you try.”

That he can get behind.

He smiles back, the gesture feeling awkward on his face. “Give me the coordinates.”

* * *

He hasn’t bought his own clothes in ages.

As his prized apprentice, Snoke had tasked the First Order with taking care of all Kylo’s needs—and once Kylo took the throne, the Grand Marshal made a spectacle of putting him in bespoke uniforms and other well-tailored clothing. Even his sleep clothes were made-to-measure.

Peeling off yet another shapeless rag that fits him across the shoulders but is incredibly loose in the waist, he curses himself for not taking more of his wardrobe with him when he left.

Dropping the shirt among the rest of the pile, he steps half-naked out of the fitting room, ignoring the looks the shopkeeper sends his way. He needs new clothes and he isn’t leaving until he finds something, even if he has to try on everything this dingy shop has to offer.

A dark blue shirt catches his eye on the rack, misplaced behind a series of blacks. He throws it over his shoulder along with a red one—plucks a blue-grey scarf off the shelf as well on his way back to the rooms.

The blue one fits much better than his other picks. Still looser than he prefers, but his jacket hides most of the excessive give if he holds the front closed—good enough until he can find a tailor. While at it, he throws the scarf around his neck, turning back to the mirror.

Not bad. The colors are not what he would normally pick, which is the point. He attracts too much attention in black, even with his jacket and new shoes; he needs to blend in better. Even El mixes up her customary grey with the occasional green.

Something about the sight feels familiar in a way he can’t quite place. Stepping back as far as the small space allows him, he inspects himself from different angles. Leans against the door, crossing his ankles and pulling his shoulders back. Not bad at all.

He buys both.

* * *

It hits him back at the shuttle, as he straps his blaster holster onto his thigh, that he looks like Han now.

* * *

Wedge has taken the copilot seat already, perched on it with his legs folded under himself—going against every single flight-safety manual Kylo has ever been handed. Kylo holds his tongue as he takes the left seat and starts the shuttle, giving the displays a brief look. While the kid wasn’t aggressive about the change of command, evidently he is territorial enough to sit beside Kylo and watch his every move like a hawk even on the shortest trip; Kylo doesn’t care to offend Wedge by trespassing further and having a pissing contest on his hands. He has seen enough of those within the High Command.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Wedge comments as Kylo takes them through a shortcut between two rockfaces instead of rounding the entire ring. A risky move, but the shuttle is small enough to pass by unnoticed. Hopefully. “How’d you learn?”

“I picked it up on my own.” If Kylo was ever taught the basics, he doesn’t remember; his style is a mix of what he picked up from being around Han and his friends as a kid, honed and blended into his own.

“No one taught me, either.”

Kylo hums in answer, carefully lining the shuttle with the debris to float across. Their chances are better if they can be mistaken for rubble.

“Yup. I mean, there was no one _to_ teach,” Wedge continues on an odd, high-pitched laugh that grates on Kylo’s nerves. “Most folks in my town wouldn’t know a hyperdrive from a repulsorlift. I just crashed speeder trucks into walls until I figured out how to go in a straight line.”

“Really.” Considering how the kid flies on a good day—barging on, expecting everything and everyone to step out of his path—it wasn’t difficult to guess. If the shuttle hadn’t been recoated at least three times since Wedge got in the pilot’s seat, Kylo will eat his lightsaber. “How did you get your hands on this shuttle?”

Wedge cuts his eyes out of the viewport, chewing on his bottom lip. Kylo glances at him in question.

“I—uh. Technically, I didn’t,” Wedge admits with a weak grin. “It’s one of my cousins’—Jem. If you’re really unlucky, you’re gonna meet him soon.”

How many cousins do these two have?

“Anyway,” Wedge says, leaning even lower in his seat. “How the hell can you fly like this if no one taught you? You just—” He gestures vaguely at the overhead controls. “It’s like you tell the shuttle to do something and it _listens_. The damn thing never listens to me.”

Kylo snorts. “I flew prototypes for nearly a standard decade. Nothing trains your control like knowing the vehicle under you can leave you drifting in space at any given moment.”

Wedge’s eyes widen in horror, his mouth dropping open.

“Flying this shuttle isn’t too different,” Kylo teases just to see Wedge’s eyes grow even wider. “My father owns a rust bucket like this—an antique; no one knows how old it truly is. I spent more time elbows deep in its guts than flying on it as a boy. Every once in a while, it would refuse to move for no apparent reason and we would float in space for days at a time, waiting for the ship to take pity on us or for someone to pick up our distress signal—whichever came first.”

Wedge eyes the displays in distrust. “But you could fix the shuttle if it broke down, right? We wouldn’t be stranded?” Kylo nods with confidence, although the answer is _most_ _likely_ at best. He isn’t _that_ cruel. “Think you could teach me a few things?”

“About fixing shuttles?”

“And flying them,” Wedge adds, his lip back between his teeth. “I can pay you extra for it, no big deal.”

Pay him extra—if it meant they would survive these errands without a crash, Kylo himself would gladly pay Wedge for the lessons. “Works for me. But if we are doing this, we must start with how you’re sitting in that chair.”

* * *

The thoughts of Han linger in his mind.

Kylo hasn’t given much thought to his family over the years. As far as he is concerned, they stopped existing the moment he walked out on them. He couldn’t help receiving the news, still. His mother is particularly hard to ignore, with all her ploys against the First Order; his father’s name crops up much less often in intelligence reports, usually in relation to this crime lord or that smuggling operation, even kriffing Nova Syndicate that one time. Doing as Han always has: wandering across the galaxy and getting into trouble.

Not unlike what Kylo does.

No, it is unlike what Kylo does. Kylo’s wandering has a deadline; the cousins find whoever they are looking for and Kylo gets a set of papers under a new name. After that, he will… figure something out. Settle down, maybe—isn’t that what they do in the holodramas? Find a house, with a garden he can walk across barefoot in and meditate. Fix ships and droids for credits. Not think about petty power struggles or wars for the rest of his life.

Not think about his family or Hux.

He would appreciate the mental rest. Between flying to the next set of coordinates as quickly as physically possible and teaching Wedge how not to kill his passengers in the meantime, there is little for him to do in the shuttle but sleep, train and think. Sleep eludes him most of the time, so he takes to playing Dejarik with El, who doesn’t play a single game without cheating.

“How does one cheat in _Dejarik_?”

“I don’t know,” Kylo admits. It isn’t the Force; he checked. “You are so skilled that I’ve never caught you.”

Giving him a hard look, “I don’t _need_ to cheat against you,” she says, turning the table off before folding it into four. “You keep giving me the stupidest openings. It’s like you have no—”

* * *

_“—foresight,” Hux says after his third win of the night, petting his victorious Houjix. The holo flickers under his finger. “You play viciously—and I don’t disapprove—but you sacrifice too much for too little. That’s the reason you keep losing.”_

_“I thought it was because I_ charge in like a bantha in heat _,” Kylo throws back, just to watch Hux’s lips curl. Truth is, he has long stopped playing to win—not that Hux has ever let him win. Kylo only shows up to their weekly Dejarik nights for the chance to stare at Hux in the privacy of Hux’s quarters._

_And stare he does. The good general becomes a different man with his gloves off and a handful of top fastenings undone. An approachable one. Funny, even though the jokes are often at Kylo’s expense. Attractive._

_Amusement flashing in his eyes, “These aren’t unrelated,” Hux says, dismissing the Houjix with a graceful flick of his wrist. The table resets itself. “Dejarik works the same as any battle, Ren. If you want to succeed, you must value your pieces for more than how hard they can hit.”_

_“Says the man who uses his Stormtroopers as cannon fodder.”_

_“If and only if that’s their best use in that instance.” Hux considers what little remains in the syrspirit bottle before topping off his glass, leaning back with his tumbler dangling from his fingers. If Kylo is a little bit in love with the pink flush high on Hux’s cheeks, well. “The outcome of a battle depends on how well you can read the table. You must familiarize yourself with both your side and the enemy’s. You must know where each of your pieces are, their strengths, their weaknesses…”_

_Hux takes a long, long sip from his drink. Transfixed, Kylo watches the delicate column of Hux’s throat work—the way he licks his lips, catching a stray drop. His soft sigh._

_“How to use them to your advantage.”_

_Kylo glances up. Hux’s gaze is pinned on him with an intensity Kylo has only seen from afar: over battle plans and strategy meetings, over the construction plans of the Starkiller_ _Base. They are too close now, even with Hux reclining on his seat._

_“Am I one of your Dejarik pieces, General?” he asks through tight lungs, all without meaning to. He wouldn’t dream of taking it back._

_A smile spreads on Hux’s face, sweet and indulgent. “Would you like to be?”_

* * *

The next stop is kriffing Corellia.

“Kor Vella doesn’t count as Corellia,” Wedge corrects Kylo as they walk past an eatery that claims to be _Corellia’s best_ , ducking into an alley. How he figures that on a _planet_ is beyond Kylo—and by the time he thinks to ask, they are already at the door.

Out of everywhere they have been for these errands, this shop might be the strangest. Piles of mismatched items stretch out in a maze, reaching halfway to the high ceiling in places. The rare tower that doesn’t start on the floor stands on chairs and other furniture with fewer than the ideal number of legs, propped up by this or that. The walls are similarly decorated with seemingly anything that could be hung, from tapestries and old-time chronos to speeder bikes and masks that may have belonged to something live once.

El and Wedge lead him through the jumble. Kylo feels like a bantha in a crystal shop as he tries to step where they do, contracting himself at impossible angles to pass through gaps they slip through without trouble. Given how precariously everything is stacked, breathing at the wrong angle might send everything crashing down.

He opts for holding his breath, just in case.

El exists first, followed closely by Wedge, who winks at him before disappearing out of sight. Kriff. Okay, it should be fine. The exit isn’t far, half a dozen steps at most. If he turns sideways and takes small steps to the left, he might just—

“If it isn’t the legendary Solos!”

—stumble straight into the stack in front of him.

Great. Just fucking—great. With his track record of messing up, what did he even expect?

His face burning, “Shit,” he mutters, grabbing at the nearest items—a lamp with half a lampshade, an ancient datapad, some rectangular plexi with smiling people on it. “Sorry, let me help tidy up—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, boy,” drawls the same, disembodied voice. A lanky, older man in an eye-searing robe walks into his view. Wedge and El follow, wearing identical grins. “Everybody makes their own doorway the first time around.”

“Although I was gonna make a ton of creds if you didn’t,” Wedge helpfully supplies, extending a hand. He and El help Kylo step over the mess without wrecking more of the _walls_. “Odie!”

A beaten-up droid that looks like a coat hanger with too many arms rolls over to the pile, picking and stacking things up without further prompting.

The man ushers them to the back of the shop, through a long, winding set of stairs and into some kind of living quarters-slash-storage. Kylo tunes out the chatter, trying to figure out what he might be walking into. While he senses no ill intent from this man, no sane person fills their living space with so many things that can bury and trap them.

They end up in a shockingly average kitchen, with a table that takes up most of the space and long, heavy curtains that match the man’s robes. Kylo seats himself next to El, with a full view of both the man rummaging through the cupboards and the exit, just in case.

“So,” the man says, taking out four big cups and a bag of loose leaves. “This is not the set I was expecting. What’ve you done with Jem?”

El and Wedge exchange a look.

“He’s… uh.” Wedge huffs out a laugh, running his hands over his short hair and latching them together at the back of his head. “Jem’s kinda why we’re here, Uncle Garrick.”

Garrick puts the leaves back into the cupboard. “Then we’ll need something stronger than tea.”

* * *

Among the four of them, a bottle of syrspirit disappears before he can say _Jem Solo is an asshole_.

Had Kylo heard the story in a cantina, he would have laughed and told the tending droid to cut off the teller. It is ridiculous no matter how you look at it: a single man, gifted with a touch of undeserved Force-sensitivity, is hired by the kriffing Nova Syndicate to break into what sounds like a military base to kill their leader—and gets stuck there. Instead of letting him rot like he deserves to, his cousins—who also happen to be Kylo’s cousins, it appears; Kylo isn’t thinking about _that_ without a lot more alcohol in his system—go on the most foolish rescue Kylo has ever heard of.

“You idiots,” Garrick says fondly, summing up Kylo’s thoughts. “After all he’s done, you still set off after his stupid ass.”

“We already had that argument,” El mumbles, shooting Wedge a dirty look. Wedge pulls a face. “Anyway. We know where he is and we think we know how to get there, but we need some stuff that we don’t know where to find. We thought you might know the right people.”

“Define _stuff_.”

Wedge fishes a folded sheet of flimsi—who still uses _flimsi_?—out of his bag. Garrick flicks it open with one hand, producing a pair of spectacles from somewhere within his robes. The script is so messy, Kylo isn’t even sure it’s in Basic, though he couldn’t read it upside down either way.

Garrick mutters unintelligibly to himself as he reads through the long list, rubbing at his chin. “I need to make some calls,” he says at last, scraping his chair back to stand. “Make yourselves at home or whatever. Eat something. You know what’s around.”

Wedge waves him off as Garrick leaves, still muttering.

* * *

They eat as instructed. They drink. Wedge digs up a box of pastries with such a shit-eating grin that Kylo immediately refuses them, which El seems to approve of.

“You’re no fun,” Wedge says with a wide pout, eats the whole box by himself and promptly falls asleep.

The evening falls with no sight of Garrick. With Wedge still out as well, El suggests they stay the night and shows Kylo to a free room, taking his clothes to throw in the wash with theirs.

Truly alone for the first time in months, Kylo leans against the closed door and looks at the messy, extravagant room that couldn’t be more different from his quarters in the Finalizer—

The laughter bubbles out of his chest, overwhelming and involuntary. He ended up on _Corellia_. With his—his cousins? Distant cousins? That he has come to _like_? After running away from any semblance of family for his entire adult life? Was this the will of the Force?

It isn’t funny. There is nothing to laugh about it—yet his throat hurts with the force of it, his eyes wet and stomach aching. Hux would be horrified—

That thought puts a stop to it.

Slightly dizzy, he slides down the length of the door to the floor, taking deep, heaving breaths. This isn’t a family reunion. There won’t be a teary group hug at the end. El and Wedge will have their cousin—their _true_ cousin—back, Kylo will have a new life and they will part ways, never to see each other again.

If this _is_ the will of the Force, he must have fallen far out of its favor.

* * *

A familiar tug comes in the Force that night, like a sign. Gentler than the ones he has been ignoring, more inviting than questioning or searching. _Trudgen_. Warmth that isn’t Kylo’s own coats his insides, soothing over aches he wouldn’t admit he still carried.

Closing his eyes, he opens himself up to the bond, letting Trudgen feel that he is alive and safe. A wave of contentment washes over him before the connection cuts off.

* * *

The errands list makes no sense.

They weave across the galaxy, darting between the opposite sides in a generous waste of time and fuel. The goal is always to pick up items: delicacies from Hosnian Prime, beskar braces from Lothal, shimmersilk gloves from Chandrila. That dagger Wedge stole from the Zabrak goes in the same box with them. Bribes, Kylo suspects, though he can’t tell for what or whom.

The sealed envelopes and grav-locked crates are less forthcoming about their purpose. When he asks about their contents, he only receives furtive glances and an uneasy silence in answer.

He doesn’t ask again.

The air in the shuttle has been… different, since Corellia. Tense. He keeps walking in on fretful looks and hushed conversations that quiet as soon as he is noticed, the eyes at the back of his head a constant feeling. Even escorting one of the cousins off-ship feels like a diversion from what the other is doing.

It shouldn’t bother him. El and Wedge have made it abundantly clear from the start that they don’t intend to let Kylo into their business any more than he needs to do his job—and Kylo never much cared about the details. This is a transaction, a short-term solution to all their problems. That they might be related doesn’t matter, especially considering the relatives in question don’t even know about it.

It shouldn’t bother him, no—except it does.

* * *

He bides his time. It is unlike him—below him, waiting for his opportunity to strike like a petty thief. His curiosity doesn’t often get the better of him. Something about those crates draws his attention insistently, however, keeping him awake when he should be resting.

He could call it the will of the Force, if he believed the Force still cared enough to guide him.

His chance shows itself nearly two weeks later, when El leaves for a shopping trip and Wedge dozes off on the copilot chair. The small storage compartment’s magna-lock doesn’t hold a chance against the Force. Crates upon crates greet him, stacked to the ceiling, some of which he hadn’t even seen being carried into the shuttle. Most hold fist-sized chunks of crystals that give off a low glow in different colors, though he feels no Force flowing through them; others have labels taped onto their sides, detailing their weight and volume and not much else of worth.

Two of the crates are different on the outside: metallic instead of plastoid like the rest, placed below and behind the others as if purposefully hidden out of sight. Digging through the stack, he pulls those out of the messy storage room, cracking the lid open.

A Stormtrooper helmet stares back at him.

His blood freezing in his veins, Kylo opens and upends the other crate to face the same sight. Two sets of Stormtrooper armor and other accessories, complete with standard issue F-11Ds and SE-44Cs. Why did— _how_ do El and Wedge have these? None of this is supposed to be available outside of the First Order military, much less for sale to civilians. Hux would have a fit if he ever—

“Lothcat’s out of the bag, huh?”

Kylo turns on his heel. Wedge is standing at the end of the hallway with his hands in his pockets, his forehead marked with the same texture as his sleeves. “Sorry,” Wedge says with a half-grin, jerking his head at the sprawling mess of armor at Kylo’s feet. “I didn’t wanna be all hush hush about it, but El said you wouldn’t stick ‘round if you knew where we were headed.”

Static buzzing at the back of his head again, “Where you were headed,” Kylo repeats. Stormtrooper gear. Routes through the Sector Octant. Waybills for industrial grade raw materials—

“Yeah.” Wedge bounces on his heels once. “Look, can we wait until El’s back? She’ll explain better than I can.”

* * *

They are headed to Sector 5-19, El explains, where Jem Solo has been in hiding since his getaway shuttle never arrived after the high-profile assassination mission he botched—the same attempt that put Kylo in a bacta tank for weeks.

Kylo is glad he’s sitting down for this conversation.

His mind is reeling, every revelation a punch to his gut. He has been helping El and Wedge rescue the very man who sabotaged Kylo’s Silencer. Hux’s prized technicians swore up and down that the _incident_ was an honest malfunction, a kriffing technical failure, while Kylo’s would-be assassin has been easily within his reach all this time.

Did Hux know? Did he allow—did he _order_ the technicians to lie to Kylo while he helped Jem Solo escape, covering up their tracks?

No. The Nova Syndicate, Wedge had told Garrick; Hux wouldn’t team up with the same gang that’s been trying to undermine the First Order for years. The very thought is absurd. What, then? Did Hux simply swoop in to—to—

What did Hux _do_?

“Your plan won’t work,” Kylo says bluntly, cutting off Wedge’s long-winded account of how they will get caught three seconds after they land on the planet. “They won’t let you walk around freely just because you’re carrying the right certificates or wearing trooper armor.”

Wedge pulls a face. “Obviously. That’s where the bribes and stun batons come in. How stupid d’you think we are?”

Kylo takes a deep breath. “This isn’t about being stupid. Sector 5-19 isn’t just a plant—it’s a fort. There are pass codes changed every three cycles you will be expected to know, areas in which your corps will and will not be allowed on schedule, spontaneous orders you won’t be able to carry out or questions you won’t be able to answer. The security systems are designed to keep everyone on their toes and spot imposters as quickly as possible. You might be able to get in, but you won’t go unnoticed long enough to find your cousin.”

Assuming Solo is still alive to be found, after all this time. The vengeful part of Kylo hopes not.

El narrows her eyes, raising her chin. “How do you know all that?”

“I used to be a high-ranking First Order officer,” Kylo says into the space between his knees, not ready to face their reactions. It isn’t a lie. “Before I deserted. I helped design some of the interrogation protocols currently in place. Believe me—if you get caught, getting shot on the spot will be the least of your worries.”

“We’re not gonna just leave him there,” Wedge says, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s family. You don’t abandon family.”

Right.

A headache is developing behind his eyes, throbbing lowly and chipping away at the patience he never had in abundance. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other; there’s a third option where everyone benefits.”

Jem Solo was merely a tool. Breaking Solo’s neck with his own hands, while enjoyable in its own right, won’t sate Kylo—nothing short of cutting off the hand that held Solo will.

Meeting first Wedge’s eyes, then El’s, “Your cousin,” Kylo says. “Would he sell information about the Nova Syndicate?”

“Why?” El demands.

“Because the First Order will want to buy.”

* * *

Meditation never comes easy when he needs it the most.

He spends hours trying to slide into the right mindset, to become a vessel through which thoughts and feelings flow, a bottomless well for the Force to fill—every trick he has ever been taught, to no avail. The storm in his center is too turbulent for it.

He gives up at last, more frustrated than when he began. The thoughts of Hux sit heavy and dark inside him. Thinking Hux was behind the attempt on Kylo’s life—it had made sense. By orchestrating Kylo’s demise at the hands of someone else, Hux would have earned the title he sought without risking retribution from Kylo’s Knights. Even Kylo could see the appeal.

Faced with the possibility that Hux might not have been involved at all, Kylo doesn’t know what to do with himself.

His headache pulses out of a tight knot behind his temples. Drawing his knees up, he rests his head against the cold durasteel and stares out of the viewport, watching the nebula they pass by. Less than a parsec away from the _Finalizer_ , now. This close, he can sense the outline of Hux’s Force-signature, homed in on it as he has been for so long.

The calm, neat room Hux used to save for him in the back of his mind, where Kylo could slip into on the bad days and watch out from Hux’s eyes without disturbing him, calls for Kylo. Among all this uncertainty, his soul seeks familiarity to help mend itself. Could he still have it? Might Hux be keeping the door open for Kylo—or would he have walled it up by now?

Closing his eyes, he extends his presence into the room—it welcomes him like he had never left. Hux’s desk blinks into his view first; the small, sleek one in the office of their quarters, covered with documents as usual, a cup of tarine tea placed at a careful distance. The memory of that sweet-sharp scent—overwhelming and ever-present—tickles Kylo’s nose.

The yearning he hadn’t allowed himself in so long fills him.

He doesn’t try to make out what Hux is working on—couldn’t even if he wanted to; filled with Hux’s shorthand as they are, the documents might as well be coded. The lines under Hux’s stylus have gotten sloppy, though, the loops curving at odd angles. It’s little wonder with the way bone-deep exhaustion drips out of Hux’s essence, his energy tainted with stimulants Kylo would never let him use—

Then again, Kylo wasn’t there to keep Hux away from them, was he? He was on the other side of the galaxy, darting among systems, while Hux had the First Order to contend with.

It should please Kylo, to see the way Hux struggles in Kylo’s absence. Serves Hux right for coveting Kylo’s title, doesn’t it—for wanting Kylo out of his way? Hux now knows what it feels like to be all alone at the top. Kylo should revel in it.

It doesn’t sit well with him, though. Could this truly be what Hux wanted all along? The weight of the entire Order on his two shoulders, with no one to share his burdens? Without Kylo there, has anyone even noticed how hard Hux is pushing himself?

Oh, _Hux_.

Hux’s vision jerks up.

Wet, cold fear unfolds from Kylo’s core.

“Ren?” Hux calls out, hope warring with crushing disbelief in the crevasses of his mind. Every scrap of his attention has latched onto the tendrils of Kylo’s presence; Kylo couldn’t move without making his presence unmistakably, undeniably known.

Hux wasn’t supposed to notice him at all.

Kylo keeps himself still. The vulnerable space where their consciousnesses meet isn’t how he wants to face Hux after so long, with so much hanging over their heads—even if he longs to hear his name in Hux’s voice once again.

 _Ren_ , Hux is thinking forcefully, as if trying to project the words. _Ren, is that you?_

A lump seats itself at the back of Kylo’s throat, stealing both his breath and voice. Hux is right there, on the other end of their connection, waiting for Kylo to respond.

What would Kylo even _say_?

Something brushes against his—no, Hux’s—calf. Millicent. Fondness blooms inside Hux as he bends to pick her up and places her in his lap, letting her dig her paws all over his legs as she seeks somewhere to rest.

She settles against his narrow chest at last. Hux releases a long sigh, scratching behind her ears. “Just another trick of the mind,” he says, resentment heavy in his tone. “I’m being foolish, aren’t I, Millie? Still pining after him like—”

Hurt jolts through both of them.

Breathing slowly against it, Hux shakes his head. “He left,” he tells her sternly. She headbutts his hand in answer. “He won’t come back. He left us.”

A fist crushing his lungs, Kylo escapes Hux’s mind. The cold, empty backroom greets him, his back stiff against the unforgiving durasteel. His heart is slamming against his chest, his headache throbbing to the same rhythm.

They need to talk.

* * *

The shuttle catches up with the _Finalizer_ just outside Sector 5.

They approach carefully, defenses up—not that it would help against a Star Destroyer if the flagship decided to open fire on sight. Tuning out Wedge’s whispered prayers and the constant clicking of El’s holster-latch behind him, Kylo keeps his eyes on a bridge viewport he can barely see. From what he remembers of Hux’s meticulous, 26-hour time-keeping system, the ship time should be somewhere within the beta shift, perhaps a little earlier. Hux must be on the bridge, making his rounds or looking out the viewport, into the vast galaxy he has dreamed of ruling his entire life.

The galaxy Kylo had promised him, more than once.

Shaking the image of Hux out of his head, Kylo opens the channel and sends the communication request.

The pause before he receives a response lasts a lifetime.

“Hello. This is, uh—” This is important, this is important, this is going to save El and Wedge’s lives. This is worth losing them forever. “This is Kylo Ren speaking.” Bursts of disbelief, betrayal and anger rush through him in the Force. He ignores them. “I have information that will interest Grand Marshal Hux.”

Silence stretches within the shuttle.

Agitation rising up his throat, “This is Kylo Ren,” he repeats more forcefully. “I have critical information for Hux. You will patch me through.”

He lets go of the transmission button, his nerves a tight bundle in his belly. Hux is ignoring him. Hux _never_ ignores him. Kylo has fucked up before and—all right, this one was a little far on the scale, but Hux is always an active participant in whatever punishment he deems fit for Kylo’s crime. He would sooner flay Kylo alive in front of the crew and push him out of an airlock than let his silence do the work for him.

Something’s wrong.

“Kylo Ren,” comes out of the comm. Kylo doesn’t recognize the voice. “This is Captain Garan.” Who the hell is Garan? Where is Hux? “You’ve been given permission to embark for an audience with Grand Marshal Hux. Prepare to board.”

“Kylo Ren?” El bites out as soon as the transmission cuts off. “As in the fucking _leader_ of the First Order? Who Jem failed to kill?”

Turning on the thrusters, “Later,” Kylo says, hoping for never. He wouldn’t know where to start explaining that one.

“No, we’re talking about this now.” A distinctive click and hiss—he looks over his shoulder and finds El pointing a blaster at his head. “Get your hands off the control panel.”

What in the kriffing _hell_.

In his periphery, Wedge takes a single step toward her. “El, come on.”

“Don’t get into this,” El snaps at him, her eyes and weapon pinned on Kylo. Whether she draws courage from it or merely doesn’t know Kylo could take it away from her in an instant, he can’t tell. He keeps his hands where she can see them anyway. “We told him all he needs to hunt down Jem. We showed him our home. How do we know he won’t send his army to raze it as soon as we get on board? He’s done worse things for revenge before.”

“I have,” Kylo admits—no point in lying when she clearly knows the blood on his hands. “But I’m not leading you into a trap. I gain nothing from killing your cousin or people.”

El just shakes her head, thumbing the gear on the side of her blaster—setting it to kill. “Your word isn’t good enough, _Bren_.”

“ _I’m_ telling you that he won’t,” Wedge says, taking another, careful step towards El. An odd warmth spreads in Kylo. “El. He said he’s defected. I can sense it—he’s afraid to go on that ship, too.”

A long look passes between the two. Kylo waits them out, the Force at his fingertips in case he needs to divert a bolt to his head. It would make a poetic sort of sense, if he were killed by family because the Force failed him at the right moment.

El sighs deeply. “You’d better be right about this,” she grits out, lowering the blaster—she doesn’t switch back to stun or turn safety on. “Otherwise you’ve just doomed all of us.”

* * *

The hangar bay they land in is unfamiliar.

Kylo isn’t a creature of habit by any means, but living on a _Resurgent_ -class battleship in wartime comes— _came_ —with the need for some ground rules, for the sake of practicality. He would only ever use the bays 1C and 2B, depending on whether his Silencer was out of commission. He would never move too far from the bridge. Outside of their quarters, he was never without his helmet or lightsaber, in case they were ambushed. He doesn’t like his rules broken.

Then again, he supposes he lost the privilege of setting rules on the _Finalizer_ when he abandoned its command.

Killing the systems, he double-checks that they are off this time. El and Wedge are waiting by the door with their day-packs on their backs, blasters holstered but within reach. He puts his own blaster away before grabbing his bag and joins them, hitting the switch.

At the sight of their welcoming committee in arms, El and Wedge immediately tense, their hands hovering dangerously close to their holsters. Always a bad idea around trained military; don’t they kriffing know that? Possibly from experience?

Stepping ahead of the two, Kylo walks out first to defuse the situation, keeping his hands carefully away from—

The hit to his stomach registers before the pain.

* * *

_He is floating._

_His senses are unfocused. Numb. Pain—no, memory of pain, distant and familiar. He closes his eyes—keeps them closed?—and lets it course through his body. Lets it ground him. Breathes, air whooshing in his ears. Breathes._

_Breathes._

_Presence. Several, in and out, minds brushing up against his and pulling away. Fear, in most—fear and awe, a horrified fascination, mild disgust mixed with curiosity. Pity. Relief._

Ren.

_He opens his eyes—keeps them open?—and tries to focus. Focus. A flash of color on the other side, distorted and greyed out like everything else._

_Warmth, like care—like anger. Comfortable. Breathes, too_ much _for his own skin. Breathes._

_Breathes._

_Movement. Color shifts, expands. Warmth, like pain—like regret. He tries to hold onto it, to surround himself with it. Drown himself in it._

Rest, Ren. I’ll be here when you wake.

* * *

He wakes to the sharp, metallic tang of the medbay, alone.

The Force flows through him without restraint, thrumming loudest in his stomach—the rest of his body aches like a giant bruise. Swallowing against the dryness of his mouth, he blinks the blurring out of his sight.

Stars. He thought he had braced himself for any eventuality, but he hadn’t accounted for getting fucking stunned by _Stormtroopers_ —or waking up in a private medbay room. A cell or an interrogation room would have made more sense after that heartfelt welcome.

Interrogation room. Kriff, are the others—

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he closes his eyes and reaches out with the Force. Wedge’s consciousness answers his call like it was waiting to be found, calm and soothing despite being so close to General Phasma’s. While the low hum of El’s anxiety is less reassuring, he doesn’t sense true distress from her, either.

A fourth, unfamiliar presence shoves his away upon contact.

Kylo flinches back into his physical body, more out of surprise than the strength of the push. The first reaction to his testing is usually resistance; he’s never had anyone push back immediately in offense. Even Hux had merely redirected and stalled while building up a wall against Kylo the first time.

Sharp heels echo through the hallway as if on cue. Kylo’s heart jumps at the sound of the familiar footsteps, longing and apprehension coursing through him in equal measure. He’s about to see Hux. He isn’t ready to see Hux. He _could_ feign sleep now and put off the confrontation until he can shower and change into his own clothes—until he feels a little more like Kylo and less like Bren.

Disgust churns in his stomach. Has he become _that_ much of a coward?

He barely manages to cover the bolt hole in his shirt before the double doors open. Hux halts in the doorway, surprise flickering across his face before he smooths it away.

“May I?” Hux asks, gesturing inside.

Not trusting his voice, Kylo nods.

Hux comes in just far enough for the doors to close behind him, taking up his usual position. It might be the crappy overhead lights that makes everyone look a little sickly, but he seems… older. Worn, his lean face grown gaunt and with dark circles under his eyes. The clever cut of his greatcoat can’t hide the poor fit of his Grand Marshal uniform from Kylo; Kylo had gotten him into and out of it enough times to know where it should be tight and where loose.

“How are you feeling?” Hux asks, his tone cordial but neutral—that practiced one he uses with dignitaries and diplomats, in meetings with the High Command but never, ever while he’s alone with Kylo.

Kylo’s heart sinks.

Running a hand through his greasy hair, “Fine,” he croaks—clears his throat. “Could use water.” And a refresher.

Hux’s eyes flick over to the empty table by the far wall, his lips twitching in displeasure. “I will arrange for some to be sent up, as well as food.” His expression sharpens as his gaze searches Kylo’s; for what, Kylo doesn’t want to know. “I’d like to apologize for what happened upon your arrival. The acting officer misjudged the situation and acted rashly while I was… indisposed. Uncertain times, you understand.”

Worry stabs through Kylo. Hux is never _indisposed_ enough to stay away from his bridge. “What happened?”

Hux smiles thinly, knife-sharp. “Stim crash—I merely took a while to rouse. Rest assured I came just in time to spare your… guests the mistreatment you were shown. They’re in the wardroom if you’d like to dine with them instead.”

Alarm bells ring at the back of Kylo’s head. The wardroom. Not even the officers’ mess, which must be empty if it’s late enough for Hux to leave the bridge, but the wardroom where maybe fifteen people are allowed in out of the entire ship. “They told you about the Nova Syndicate, then.”

Hux nods once. “You were right; it was valuable intel. Intel that’s since confirmed. In return, they will be treated as esteemed guests during their stay, and will be free to go once Mr. Jem is in decent shape.”

They found Jem? Alive? How long has Kylo been out of it?

“Of course,” Hux continues, “with the stipulation that none of you will ever be seen in any First Order-controlled space—”

Blood freezes in Kylo’s veins.

“—or actively work against the First Order again.”

“What?” Kylo manages to ask. “What do you mean, _none of you_?”

“Didn’t you know?” Hux asks, his brows furrowing before smoothing again. “They bargained for you, too. Rather fervently, I might add.”

El and Wedge knew who he is. They knew what he’s done. They bargained to save him anyway.

Kylo is officially exiled from the First Order.

The scream gets stuck in his throat.

“With that settled,” Hux says, running a hand down the front of his uniform, “I must return to my duties. An officer will be with you shortly to show you to your private chambers.”

He turns away without waiting for a response, the doors sliding open again. Pausing in the doorway, “FN-2187, you will give him everything he asks for,” he orders the trooper standing outside. “And his TIE Silencer.”

* * *

Once his needs are met and the meddroid deems him stable, Kylo leaves the medbay, shaking the officer that’s been hounding him off his tail with a Force-suggestion. Using the Force again feels like re-learning how to use his arm after he had it tied behind his back, his powers responding to his commands a moment too late.

He shakes off that thought, too.

It’s strange to walk through the _Finalizer_ without his mask and robes. He keeps expecting to be stopped, his face unfamiliar to the crew, but the patrolling Stormtroopers merely salute him as he enters the officers’ deck and makes for the wardroom.

Inside, Wedge is chattering at General Phasma, who was unfortunate enough to be seated next to him. El and a bald, stick-thin man that Kylo assumes to be Jem Solo sit opposite of them at the long table. Phasma’s eyes snap up as Kylo enters, her expression as unreadable as her mask was—not that Kylo needs to see the disdain for himself on her face to feel it radiate off her.

He doesn’t blame her for it.

Wedge follows her gaze, beaming when he spots Kylo. “Bren,” he greets Kylo with a wide grin, pulling out the nearest empty chair. Guilt twists in Kylo’s guts. “Or is it Kylo?”

The weight of four sets of eyes on him, “Either or,” Kylo mutters with a shrug, forcing his feet to move. A mouse droid has already set his place at his usual seat at the far end; he carries them over as well.

Kylo and Bren’s worlds were never supposed to intersect.

The meal is a tense affair. Wedge tells daring, overblown tales of adventures between bites, hellbent on singlehandedly dispelling the awkwardness in the air, peering at them every so often to make sure they’re still listening. Even Phasma humors him, bestowing small nods of… not encouragement, not quite, but something resembling acknowledgement at the appropriate pauses. Wedge’s face lights up after each.

Jem Solo’s presence, on the other hand, is as welcome as nails underneath Kylo’s skin. Solo’s eyes—too big, too dark, too _empty_ for his face—rarely lift from his plate while he boldly pokes and prods at Kylo’s mental defenses. Not trying to get past them so much as feeling out their shape. Kylo refrains from turning his brain into mush only for El and Wedge’s sake; it would be a waste after all the trouble they went through to get Solo back.

Undeserving as Solo is of their care.

 _You took everything from me_ , Kylo projects at Solo, putting the rasp of his vocoder into the tone—delights in the way Solo’s eyes widen in recognition and fear. _The least you can do is let me eat in peace_.

The wandering Force ceases after that.

Despite—quite evidently—needing it the most, Solo barely makes a dent in his plate in the time the rest take to clear their own. His knife and fork idly play over his plate as he slices the strips of meat into thinner ones and buries them under breadcrumbs. His cold soup has developed a thin film on the surface.

Something restless stirs under Kylo’s ribcage, not fitting with the disdain he feels for Solo.

“Stop staring at me like that,” Solo grates out.

El and Wedge exchange a look across the table. “We’re not staring,” El says gently, more than she was to Wedge when he injured himself. “We’re looking at you because we missed you.”

“Bantha shit,” Solo snaps at her. The urge to defend El rises inside Kylo—not that it’s any of his business. “That why you pinched my shuttle the minute I left? Didn’t even wait to make sure I kicked it first?”

El runs a hand through her hair, untucking it out of her loose bun. “We needed your shuttle to search for you, Jem. You set us on a wild banshee chase; how else were we supposed to find you?”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Solo snarls, his hold around his fork tightening. “I _literally_ drag myself to your doorstep and you turn me away—”

“I _told you_ a hundred times not to take—”

“—but I leave you two the fuck alone like—like you always wanted and _suddenly_ I’m your favorite?” Solo slashes a hand in the air. “Even _Garrick_ pinged me. That guy forgets that I _exist_ half the time.”

Huffing out a long breath, “We never wanted you gone, Jem,” El says, a light tremble under her careful tone.

“ _Bantha._ Shit. You never wanna see me. You never wanna talk to me. You been keeping this one—” Solo points at Wedge, his jagged fingernail nearly in Wedge’s face across the table. “—away from me, too.”

“Because you pull stupid stunts like going up against—” El glances at Phasma, who does an impressive show of focusing only on her food. “You’re a bad influence on Wedge,” she finishes more calmly. “He needs better role models in his life.”

Wedge latches his hands together at the back of his head, giving them a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, can we maybe let Wedge decide that?”

An ugly grin spreads across Solo’s face. “Better role models like _you_?” he drawls, brows rising high. El flinches as if slapped. “ _Elwood Solo_ , the queen of—”

Phasma clears her throat.

El shuts her mouth around the response with a _click_ , a blush climbing up her neck and ears.

Solo stabs at his food, glowering at no one in particular. “I should’ve died on that fuckin’ planet.”

Silence falls around the table.

* * *

The quarters are exactly how Kylo left them.

His lungs sitting wrong in his chest, he slowly makes his way through the room. His holocrons lined on the shelves. His calligraphy set. He never thought he would see any of them again—even his pedestal of ashes is where he left it, safe under its shining transparisteel lid despite Hux’s threats that he would make it Millicent’s litterbox one of these days.

Millicent. Where is Millicent?

Grabbing an orange-and-black hook with tiny bells—one they did _not_ own before—he searches all her known hidey-holes, including the nooks she has grown too big for. _Pspsps_ ing her into revealing herself doesn’t work, nor does breaking out the small package of treats Hux would swear he doesn’t keep.

The Force points towards his dresser—he can swear it wasn’t ajar three seconds ago. Opening the bottom drawer, he finds Millicent nested comfortably among his black clothes, blinking big, green, accusatory eyes at him.

“Millie,” he chastises her, reaching to pick her up—she rolls onto her back, keeping him away with her claws. One catches him by the side of his hand with a deep sting, blooming red immediately.

Tears springing into his eyes, he pulls his hand back, inspecting the twin cuts as Millicent dashes under the bed. Superficial wounds. They don’t hurt half as much as the realization that not even his kriffing _cat_ wants him around.

Well. Kylo is already here. Might as well take a proper shower before he’s sent to drift across the galaxy forever.

He empties the contents of his bag down the laundry chute. The clothes on his back join them soon after. The scalding water is blissful after months of lukewarm showers; he scrubs the muck of the galaxy off until his skin is pink and wrinkled and raw.

He turns the shower off just as the access panel beeps from the living area.

Hux.

His heart hammering, he dries himself off in haste and pulls on his shirt and leggings. Hux is by the kitchenette as expected, preparing his evening tea before even taking off his greatcoat. Kylo’s heart soars at the familiar sight—drops again once he takes in the slump of Hux’s shoulders, his sluggish movements, the way his feet drag instead of his usual, crisp steps.

“Hux.”

Hux swirls around, the hem of his greatcoat drawing a sharp circle. “Ren,” he breathes, blinking rapidly; the note of incredulity in his tone reverberates inside Kylo. In the next breath, the surprise is washed away, leaving behind that practiced politeness. “Weren’t you shown to your rooms?”

Gesturing at the shelves, “These are my rooms,” Kylo says, trying to put more confidence behind the words than he feels. “This is where I’ll stay.” The extra pillow on his side of the bed, his lightsaber that still rests on his side table—everything around them says so. Everything except Hux.

If Hux wanted to claim the space for himself, he should have at least changed the cursed key code.

Something fierce passes over Hux’s face. “Fine,” he bites out, pulling his greatcoat tighter around himself. “I can’t very well stop you from doing whatever you want, can I.”

Hux marches past him into the bedroom without a second look, slamming the door. The lock clicks behind him.

Lead fills Kylo’s guts. Hux locked the door on him. They had never put locks or keys between them before, not even after their worst arguments.

Kylo paces. A restless energy buzzes under his skin, growing hotter the longer Hux stays away, tension coiling in his shoulders and thighs. He could unlock it with the Force. The mechanism is too simple to resist him; a twist of his fingers would remove the door off its hinges entirely. The voice in the back of his head is telling him to do it, to make Hux face him, to _acknowledge_ him instead of hiding just out of his reach—

It’s the same voice that had put him in a stolen shuttle in the dead of the night.

The boiler clicks off again, the water in it cooled and re-boiled too many times by now. The mug still rests on the counter, the golden label of Hux’s favorite brand shining as if signaling to Kylo.

Tea. Of course. Kriff, he’s an idiot; he had the answer sitting _right there_ all this time.

Hux preparing his tea has a ritual-like quality to it. Kylo isn’t so sophisticated; he dumps hot water over the teabag and lets it steep until the reek of tarine covers every part of the quarters. That should draw Hux out.

It doesn’t.

Hux might be taking a nap. He was roused from a crash in the first place; he may have succumbed to real sleep. Closing his eyes, Kylo tunes into Hux’s energy, hoping to find it in a restful state.

Agitation bleeds through the connection instead: an overwhelming mix of fury, sorrow and misery.

Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Kylo cuts the connection. This is how he makes Hux feel. It wasn’t enough that he hurt Hux by leaving—he’s hurting Hux by staying, too.

Cupping the warm tea in his hands, he shuffles toward the bedroom door. “Hux?” No response—not that he was expecting to get one. “Listen, I’m going to stay at my assigned quarters. You can come out. Your tea is on the table if you want it.”

He puts the mug down with a pointed _thud_ , pausing for a moment in case Hux comes out to berate him for it. The door remains closed. Disappointment coursing through him, he looks for something to wear—a coat, his boots. Even his socks are in the bedroom; he will have to trek barefoot to some empty, cold bed in a spare room across the freezing ship.

The desire to curl onto the small couch and sleep until the universe stops hating him overwhelms him. He’s tired of drifting, of not having a place to lay his head down—of having no place to call his own. Leaving—the way he did, for the reasons he did—was a mistake. He accepts that. Was returning an even bigger one?

The bedroom door unlocks.

Kylo freezes in place.

Hux walks out without sparing a glance at him, dressed for battle in dark trousers and a button-down shirt. Seating himself on the couch, “Weren’t you leaving?” he asks, crossing his ankles. _Again_ , Kylo hears in his guarded tone.

Consciously or unconsciously, Hux left enough space on the couch for Kylo, pushing himself against the armrest. It might be—most probably _is_ —just Kylo projecting, but it feels like a test.

“I can if you want me to,” Kylo responds carefully. He failed the last one by making assumptions; this time, he isn’t taking any chances.

Picking up the mug, Hux leans back, cradling it between two hands. “That was a yes or no question, Ren.”

Well, then.

Kylo perches on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, prepared to get on his feet at a moment’s notice. Hux just sniffs at the tea, taking a tiny sip. His nose crinkles in displeasure, before he takes another, bigger sip.

The realization hits Kylo with a deep twinge: this is what he lost. He lost the quiet moments, the privilege to mess up Hux’s tea and have him drink it anyway, to watch Hux’s spine and shoulders gradually lose their rigidity in their private space, where only Kylo can see.

How did he ever walk away from this?

“You kept my stuff,” Kylo says softly.

Hux hums, the corners of his lips twitching. “They weren’t mine to throw away,” he says, looking around the room impassively. “By all means, take everything with you when you leave.”

 _When you leave_. The conviction in his tone hits Kylo harder than the words themselves—the offhand assurance of an order behind them. Hux doesn’t even consider the alternative.

Steeling himself to hear _yes_ , “Do I have to leave?” Kylo asks. Hux pauses with the tea halfway to his lips, sending him a side look. “Am I being sent away?”

Hux’s gaze sharpens, wariness etched in the lines of his face. Kylo longs to kiss them away. “You’re a traitor to the First Order,” Hux says tightly. “You should be grateful that you’re walking away with your life; another Grand Marshal would have had you executed.”

“Why aren’t you, then?”

Hux’s lips curl into a small, bitter smile. “Contrary to common belief, even I’m not heartless enough to kill the one I love.”

Kylo’s breath catches in his throat.

The relief hits him hard, sharp and dizzying. He had dared to hope, yes, but not without the acrid fear of being proven wrong tainting it. A weight lifts off his shoulders and chest, leaving him light as a feather.

A distinct redness creeps up Hux’s throat. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” he says, on the verge of a warning. “You can’t have not known.”

“You’ve never told me,” Kylo says, the words _say it again_ on the tip of his tongue. _The one I love. The one I love. The one I_ love.

“So? Neither have you, but I hadn’t doubted it.”

The joy drains away as quickly as it came. “Hadn’t?”

Hux’s frown deepens. “You did disappear without so much as a word,” he points out, an awkward cadence to his tone. “That sort of act tends to raise some doubts. Not to mention, questions.”

Kylo takes a deep, steadying breath. He did want to talk to Hux, didn’t he? Clear things up. Now is his chance.

Swallowing against his dry throat, “I was running away,” he confesses. “From you. I took off because I thought you were behind the sabotage on my Silencer.”

Hux’s entire body goes rigid, his eyes widening in slack-jawed disbelief. Unable to face the naked hurt on his face, Kylo watches Hux’s knuckles turn white around the black porcelain mug instead.

“I stole the throne from you,” he pushes forward, trying to get the words out before he loses his courage. “I knew you were planning to take over once we killed Snoke, and I thought—if you got all you wanted in one fell swoop, you wouldn’t have any reason to keep me. You would discard me, sooner or later. I couldn’t bear the thought.” It sounds even worse out loud. “I stole your title—and I kept anticipating retaliation for it.”

“All these years?” Hux asks, his voice cracking. Kylo’s heart shatters with it. “To this day?”

Kylo shrugs, stiff and jerky. “You are patient,” he says, though it falls flat even to his own ears. “You had seduced me in order to have a weapon against Snoke. I thought maybe you were waiting for someone to use against me, too.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bantha crap,” Hux sneers, blinking away the light sheen in his eyes. “I’m a busy man. If all I wanted was your title, slitting your throat while you lied boneless after a good fuck would’ve been _much_ more efficient than sitting through your tantrums and crises of faith.”

 _Tantrums_. Hot fury shoots up Kylo’s veins, his face tingling as all his blood rushes north. “Excuse me for taking up your time, Your Excellency,” he snaps, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “I didn’t realize supporting me was such a chore for you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know that.”

No, Kylo really doesn’t.

Swallowing hard against all the venom he wants to spit out, Kylo breathes in through his nose, trying to reign in his anger. No need to prove Hux’s point.

“You just told me that you’ve been lying next to me with one eye open for _years_ , Ren. I think I’m well within my rights to rethink our relationship.”

“Our relationship,” Kylo repeats with a scoff. “I wasn’t even sure this was a relationship; this is the first time we’ve spoken of it as such. In fact, this is the first time we’ve talked of it at all.”

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose. “I invited you to _live with me_. How many ways are there to interpret that?”

“You didn’t invite me to anything!” In what realm of reality is Hux living? “I gradually moved my things here and you didn’t turn me away. That isn’t the same as _inviting me_.” Kylo had been grateful, before the idea of returning one day to find his belongings at the door took over.

“Well that was my intention,” Hux says, waving it off. The tea sloshes dangerously in the mostly full mug in his other hand. “Aren’t you a mind reader? Must I explicitly state everything?”

Burying his hands into his damp hair, “That isn’t how it works,” Kylo grits out, for what feels like the hundredth time by now. “Your thoughts aren’t a—a transmission I can tune into and follow whenever I want, Hux. If you want me to know something, you have to _explicitly state_ it.”

Hux releases an empty, humorless chuckle. “All right,” he says with a sharp twist to his lips, putting up a hand. “This is all on me. You thought I’ve been meaning to _kill you_ because I didn’t say I love you. I made you abandon the rule of the most powerful military organization in the galaxy—”

“I hated being the Supreme Leader!”

“Then maybe you should have fucking _said so_!”

The mug crashes on the durasteel.

Chest heaving, Kylo blinks at the liquid pooling by the bedroom door, porcelain shards and splashes of tea spreading over the carpet. Hux is rubbing at his palm, glaring up at—Kylo is on his feet? When did that happen?

Did he take the mug from Hux?

“I didn’t know I was a bad lover,” Hux mutters, looking at his reddened hand. The urge to cover it with his own grips Kylo with a staggering force. “I didn’t know you didn’t trust me. I didn’t know you hated your position. You accuse me of not communicating with you, but you haven’t told me shit, either, Ren! You just—you just _left_.”

Taking a deep breath, Kylo sits next to Hux again, more closely this time. Hux looks away, at the growing mess off to the side. “I didn’t know talking was an option,” Kylo admits.

Hux scoffs, shaking his head.

They sit in silence, Kylo watching Hux while Hux watches nothing. The handbreadth of distance between them might as well be a chasm for how remote Hux feels from him. It’s difficult to believe that they used to be a team—the two of them facing down Snoke, the Resistance, their countless other enemies out in the galaxy.

Could they build that again? Is it too late for them?

Once it becomes apparent Hux won’t say anything, “So,” Kylo starts. “Where does that leave us?”

“As far as I’m concerned, exactly where we were before. You messed up, I messed up—it doesn’t wash away your crimes against the First Order.” Hux glances at him. “I don’t suppose you wanted to have your title back, at any rate.”

No. Those days are behind him. While he doesn’t know what his future will hold—aside from three idiots and a dented shuttle, if they will have him—he knows it won’t involve a throne. “I was about to offer a partnership, actually—or an alliance, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Hux considers him. “What do you propose?”

“The Nova gang is still out there,” Kylo reminds him, gesturing out of the viewport. “Thinking they won. I want them to pay for what they’ve done—and I want your support for it.”

“We can’t,” Hux says, shaking his head. “Not now. Our Supreme Leader is missing. The rumors that we have no ruler have spread far despite my best efforts. Many of our adversaries have been circling us, waiting for the slightest opening; going into battle against the Nova Syndicate might encourage them to do the same against us. We can’t fight everybody at once.”

“I’m not suggesting an open war. Hiring someone who can fight where you can’t would be a better use of First Order resources.”

Hux huffs out a low laugh. “You mean you and your ragtag team out there?”

“No.” The idea of the kid going up against yet another powerful organization makes something clench inside Kylo. “Give me my Knights. The seven of us will find and cut out their heads; your battalions can come in to finish the job afterwards. Send a message.”

A small, hesitant smile appears on Hux’s lips—more than enough to encourage Kylo. Stomach fluttering, Kylo slides his hand into Hux’s, squeezing once. “We will make them pay. Together.”

Hux squeezes back.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo, for the prompt: confrontation. (11/25 filled; find the full list [here](https://desynchimminent.tumblr.com/post/181821535129/received-my-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo-full).)


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